


Up the Wolves

by batneko



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood, Brother Feels, Gen, Used car salesman, Were-Creatures, Werecats, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5154767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batneko/pseuds/batneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan gets attacked by a large animal in spring of 1980, and finds himself heading northwest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song by the Mountain Goats, because I am not creative. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agbCspmBSWk

April 30, 1980  
1:25 AM

The Stanleymobile crapped out somewhere in the “shoot first” backwater area of Texas, a fact which was not lost on Stanley himself as he pulled over by the side of the highway. Emergency lights on, okay. Hood popped. If he had any flares he’d have lit them, but they were used as a distraction to his getaway in one of the Virginias, over a year ago.

“Come on baby,” Stan muttered desperately, clambering out the door. There wasn’t any smoke, and he couldn’t smell anything burning, the car had just… stopped. “Don’t do this to me,” he begged. Either the car or the universe at large. It didn’t matter.

He stared at the engine by the feeble glimmer of his lighter, wishing he knew what the hell he was looking at. Stan had been so excited when he bought this thing. Done all his research. Saved for years. And he wasn’t incompetent, he could change the oil, replace gaskets or the fan belt. But if it wasn’t anything obvious, he was at a loss.

The darkness didn’t help. Neither did the coyotes or something howling in the distance. Did they have wolves in Texas? All he knew about the wildlife here was that he’d passed a “big cat sanctuary” a couple hours ago and didn’t like the sound of it. Those dogs or whatever seemed agitated.

At the very least, Stan could check the oil and top off the water. He had some in the trunk… probably.

He popped that too and started digging through bags of clothes and failed innovations, when he heard something else rustling in the dried grasses the lined the road. He started backing toward the passenger seat where he kept his bat.

In the end, it happened so fast he was never sure what he saw. Just a dark hulking shape, and eyes reflecting the red emergency lights, and an impression of teeth and claws, and then his shoulder was on fire and everything went black.

***  
7:03 AM

Stan woke to the sun on his face and blood in his nostrils. For a split second he thought he was back in Columbia, then the pain in his shoulder made its way through the fog. He rolled over and groaned into the dirt.

The car. And the… whatever. Tiger, probably. Escaped from that cat zoo. Texas was ridiculous.

Stan probed his shoulder carefully with his fingers. It hurt like a sumbitch, and he could feel a lot of dried blood, but he could still move his arm and that was something.

A car whizzed by and honked at him. Stan resisted the urge to flip it off. “No, I’m fine,” he muttered, pulling himself up by the rear bumper. “Just survived a goddamn tiger attack. No need to pull over and see if I’m okay. No good Samaritans needed here.”

A metal flask he’d ignored last night was jammed in between two of his bags, sealed in a plastic one with a label reading “exhibit C.” Stan unscrewed the top at arm’s length and sniffed it cautiously. The friend who’d left it in his car had a much higher tolerance than Stan (or most people, for that matter). Satisfied that, at the very least, it was alcohol, Stan sloshed some over where the injury hurt the worst. Somehow it burned even more than the initial attack.

Thinking better than to take a sip, Stan dribbled a little on his scraped-up knees and palms, and tried to start the car. It growled to life like nothing had ever been wrong.

Laughing only a little hysterically, Stan decided to drive northwest until he was the hell out of Texas.

***

June 1, 1980  
6:15 AM

Stan woke inside his car. That wasn’t unusual. The fact that the door was open and his clothes were missing was a little more worrisome, but he was parked by a hiking trail somewhere in the woods of… Utah? Maybe? intentionally so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

And, okay, he’d been feeling angry and restless last night. For a couple nights, really. So he’d had a few caps of the booze he’d stocked up on before entering Mormon territory to help him sleep. Obviously too much. It seemed like he’d tried to go on a naked nature walk, if the mud between his toes and grass in his hair was any indication.

Stan sat up, groping for the nearest piece of cloth in case some churchy early-rising family had parked nearby, when he suddenly leaned over and retched on the pavement. A puddle of blood splattered on the white line of his parking space, looking terrifyingly red in the early morning light.

So this was it. Eight years of bad food and worse booze, and he’d done it. He’d wrecked some part of his body bad enough that he was puking up blood and… oh god, was that hunks of flesh?

He couldn’t afford a doctor. Not after he’d spent so much last month on rabies shots. At the time it had seemed like a necessary expense; he didn’t want to die like a mangy dog, crazy and foaming in a gutter. But puking up his insides was worse. Much worse.

“Are you all right, son?”

Stan looked up into a concerned, wrinkled face, topped by neatly combed gray hair. He couldn’t think of a good answer, so he just kept staring.

“Sorry, silly question. Ah, hold on.”

The old man disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a tartan blanket. He draped it on Stan, who suddenly realized how cold it was.

“Thanks,” Stan said, his voice hoarse. A little more alert now, he realized to his horror that an equally old woman was standing a few steps behind the man.

“Do you think you can keep anything down, hon?”

He shook his head, too humiliated to speak.

“At least try to drink some water, you don’t want to get dehydrated.”

Another snippet of information snuck in. They were both wearing khaki shirts and matching trousers, with some kind of patch over the heart.

“Oh god, are you park rangers?”

“Volunteers,” the man said. “I’m Joe and this is Sharon”

“I’m sorry,” Stan sad instead of introducing himself. “I know I wasn’t supposed to sleep here-”

“No, no,” Joe held up his hands. “You did the right thing, pulling over. You shouldn’t have been driving.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, though he hadn’t started drinking until he’d parked.

“The truth is, honey, we’re telling everyone to clear out. There’s a vicious cougar on the prowl.”

“A cougar?” Stan repeated. Wouldn’t it be just perfect if he got attacked by two wild animals in two months?

“You better ride with us to the ranger station until you’re feeling better.”

“I… Are you sure?”

“Of course. We’ve got coffee, and we can make you a cup of soup once you’re up for it.”

Stan swallowed, out of nervousness rather than nausea. “Oh- okay.”

Four hours later Stan hit the road, with some church literature, a couple sandwiches and a thermos of tea, and the tartan blanket which Joe (understandably) said he could keep. Even if he was pretty sure he would never top today as far as embarrassment went, he couldn’t help but be glad it happened in the middle of _friendly_ religious kook territory.

***  
June 29, 1980  
8:00 AM

Stan woke to a watch alarm beeping discordantly, the way Stanford had started setting his in high school. He said an arrhythmic sound woke you faster and was much harder to sleep through. Stan believed it, because it was annoying as hell.

He groaned and tried to roll over, but the rough surface at his back and strange stiffness in his neck only pulled him further toward wakefulness.

“Stanley.”

“No,” Stan grumbled.

“Stanley, I know you’re awake.”

The voice did it. He’d know that voice anywhere. And when he opened his eyes, the fact that he saw his brother first and the gun second probably said a lot about how much he’d been missing him.

The gun was pretty attention-grabbing though.

“Stanford, what the _hell_?”

“I wasn’t sure how stable you’d be.” He shrugged, as if that both made perfect sense, and justified pointing a gun at your brother. At least he put it down on the ground next to his metal folding chair.

Ford looked… well, about how Stan expected him to look, after all these years. He still couldn’t dress, or comb his hair, and he was wearing the same dorky glasses. But his face had filled out, and he sat up straighter. He looked confident. He looked like sitting on a folding chair, in the woods, in a sweatervest, with a pistol next to you, was the most natural thing in the world.

Stan tried to get up, only to discover his stiff neck was being held in place by a metal collar. What felt like a combination lock held it shut, and he could hear the clunking of chains behind him.

“Did you _chain me to a tree_?”

“It seemed prudent.”

Stan groaned and flopped over on his side. At least the chain was long enough to allow that much. “This is a dream. That asshole Rick dosed me again, and I’m having a fucked-up coke dream.”

He could hear his brother’s brow furrowing. “You use cocaine?”

“God no. Not after Columbia.” He turned his head to scowl at Ford through the tree’s roots. “Do you care?”

“I…” The scowl was familiar. Stan saw it in the mirror often enough. “Don’t do this. There are more important things to worry about.”

“Like why the hell you’re treating me like I’m going to kill you?”

“Yes, exactly that.” He looked almost eager. “Stanley, how long have you been a werewolf?”

Stan stared at him. Sat up. Brushed the dirt from his face. And said, carefully, “Stanford, werewolves aren’t _real_.”

Ford gave him a condescending smile. He’d done the same thing on the rare occasions Stan asked for help with school, instead of just copying. He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began scribbling notes. “Three months or less, then.”

“Stanford.”

“Were you attacked by a large animal, or bitten by a human, within that timeframe?”

“Stanford, tell me that werewolves aren’t real.”

He hesitated. “I know this must be a shock…”

“‘Shocking’ was you pointing a gun at me. This is just _insane_.” He tugged at the chain. It was sturdy, thick, and showed signs of previous use. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” At least Ford looked concerned.

“The last thing I remember was reaching Oregon and looking for the cheapest non-murder motel I could find.”

“Still Oregon. Gravity Falls to be exact.” Ford started writing in his notebook again. “This is very interesting. After becoming an anomaly, you headed in this direction.” He frowned. “You didn’t know I was here, did you?”

“How would I- No. Why are you here?”

“I’ve been living here for years now.” He tucked away the book and stood. “Let’s go to my house, at least. You can borrow some clothes.”

It was warm enough that Stan hadn’t even noticed.  He was still dressed this time, thank god, but only barely. His shirt was hanging in shreds from his neck, and his pants only held together on the side by one brave belt loop that had refused to give up.

“Nothing you haven’t seen.”

Ford snorted. He bent over and picked up the pistol.

“Hey- Come on.”

“It’s just a precaution.”

“It’s a gun!”

“The collar is inlaid with silver. It might be keeping you docile.”

“I don’t _feel_ docile!” Stan pushed back as far against the tree as he could, but the chain wouldn’t let him run away without looking ridiculous.  Ford pointed the gun at him, finger well away from the trigger, and started fiddling with the lock with his other hand. After a moment, Stan heard the tumblers fall into place, and the collar swung open.

The first thing he did was grab Ford’s wrist and wrench the gun from his hand.  Ford cried out, which was why the next thing Stan did was kick him in the knee and send him sprawling.  He popped out the clip, checked the chamber, and flung it as far as he could into the bushes.

“What was that for?” Ford demanded.

“Are you _kidding_ me? You tied me up like an _animal_. You pointed a _gun_ at me. I’m your brother!”

“You’re a werewolf! You wouldn’t want to hurt me, would you?” Ford got to his feet and, in answer, Stan socked him in the jaw.

They were still struggling five minutes later when Stan heard a car pull up, and someone shouted, “What in the Sam Hill is going on here?”

Ford shoved Stan away and straightened his glasses. “Fiddleford, I-”

“This must be your brother.”

Stan pulled his clothes into some semblance of order, and found himself being offered a hand up.  Mostly to spite Ford, he took it.

“Fiddleford McGucket,” the new man introduced himself, shaking Stan’s hand.  He was tall and gangly, somehow even nerdier-looking than Ford, but at least he seemed friendly.

“Uh. Stanley Pines.”

“Really? Stanford and Stanley?” McGucket laughed.  "Sounds 'bout right, from what I know of your parents.“

"And… what do you know?”

“Not much. Just that he never talks about 'em. Or you.”  McGucket shot a glance at Ford, who had the grace to look embarrassed.

“It didn’t come up.”

“We’ve known each other for seven years,” McGucket said to Stan, conspiratorially.  "And it never 'came up’ in all that time? Tells you a lot.“

Stan decided he liked this guy.

"Let’s go back to the house,” Ford grumbled.  "Stanley still doesn’t even believe me!“

"I don’t,” Stan agreed, and backed up.  "And aside from getting some pants, I’m pretty reluctant to go anywhere with you.“

"You can’t just leave, you’re a _werewolf_ , Stanley!”

“Repeating things doesn’t make them true.”

“Tell him,” Ford gestured helplessly at McGucket. “I made a cure for the zombie transformation.”

“Eventually,” McGucket muttered.

“Well I can _eventually_ cure this! And in the meantime, we can keep him contained-”

“You’re not chaining me to a tree again!”

“Everyone stop.” McGucket held up both hands. “Stanley, you need clothes and food, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Well the closest place for those is your brother’s house, so that’s where we’re going.” He glanced at the tree, and raised his eyebrows. “Is that- Are those bullets on the ground?”

“None of them were fired,” Ford assured him.

“I wouldn’t think so! Didn’t you have silver nitrate darts?”

“You shot me with a dart?” Stan exclaimed.

“You killed a _bear_!”

Stan blinked, impressed. “I killed a bear?”

“All of this can be discussed after coffee!” McGucket exclaimed. “Stanley can ride with me. Ford, where’s… Did you walk here?”

“I never got my car back from those tree monsters.”

“You can both ride with me. No fightin’. I’m keepin’ the gun.” McGucket started rubbing his temples. “I’m too young to be a parent.”

Ford trooped off to the car, like the good boy he was, but Stan hung back to help McGucket retrieve the gun.

“Listen, uh… thanks. For standing up for me.”

“You’re welcome, but I’m not.”

Stan blinked.

“I like Ford. He’s my friend. We work well together. But he’s _terrible_ with people. I guess I reckoned he’d be better with his family, but now I see that’s not the case.”  McGucket sighed.  "You might not believe it, but there’s a lot of strange things in this town. I’m inclined to think he’s right, and you really are a werewolf. In which case, despite everythin’, it really is better if you stay here. Ah.“ McGucket fished around in the bushes, and pulled out the gun.

He tucked it in the back of his pants and headed toward the car.  "All I’m doing is translatin’ what he ought to be sayin’. And that’s that you’re the one with the most to lose by not stayin’.”

Stan didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t think of anything to say.  In the last half hour he’d been reunited with his brother, told werewolves existed and he was one, and given a dressing-down by some kind of weird hybrid of a hillbilly and a nerd.

He needed coffee. And sleep. And pants. And, hopefully, answers. And the only place he was likely to get any of those right now was at Ford’s house.

He followed them.


	2. Chapter 2

June 29, 1980

10:10 AM

 

"I'm not gonna lie, Sixer, I'm impressed."

He was gratified to see his brother smile into his plate of eggs. "Cooking is just science. The application of heat."

"You can't season worth a dang, though," McGucket said cheerily. He'd added enough ketchup and salt to his food to clog an elephant's arteries. But he was in a better mood now that the Pines twins weren't trying to punch each other's teeth out.

"That's- That's purely subjective."

"Plus you designed this house?" Stan gulped down the last of his coffee. That, actually, was awful. Too strong, and stale, but he'd added plenty of milk and sugar and lied that he always took it that way. "Pretty neat."

"Well, more or less. I started with some standard plans and just added what I needed." He still looked pleased. Stan almost dared to hope this was going to be all right.

Ford had always been a sucker for flattery. At this point in his life, Stan could admit he was too, but his brother fell for it every time, no matter how outlandish.

"So." Stan leaned back in his chair and tugged the borrowed shirt down over his stomach. It was too tight, the fabric pulling across his stomach and chest. He wanted to defend himself, tell them he'd actually been in shape for a few years there, but Ford wouldn't believe it, and McGucket wouldn't care. "Who wants to help me find my car?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Ford asked. The notebook was back, pencil hovering over the page. "Be specific."

"Okay, well..."

 

He was driving along a dark road, the trees closing in tight on either side. Oregon was beautiful, he'd never seen so much green, but all trees looked the same after a day of it. The mountains meant the sun set early, which meant he should have stopped for the night hours ago, but he had this weird urge to keep moving. Stan felt... restless. Jumpy. And hungry, even though he had a burger in the last town. He was craving meat, not that that was unusual.

Above the forest the stars were dim, a few gray clouds still hanging on. Stan winced when one drifted aside and the moon finally came into view. It was bright, brighter than seemed natural. Everything was too bright. The moon, the stars, the streetlights, the dashboard. Suddenly Stan's head was pounding.

He pulled over, barely avoiding the ditch, even though he could see it perfectly now. It was too bright, and too  _loud_ , and the scent of metal and gasoline was making him sick. He could smell the trees and the dirt and the musk of animals out there. He needed to get out of the car for a while. Work off this weird restless energy. Just run for a while, run and- and find something to eat.

Stan opened the door, tumbled to the ground, and-

 

"That's it."

"That's it?" Ford parroted. He frowned and scribbled something out. "You got a headache and pulled over?"

Stan shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you."

"Well, it's interesting. Still good data. Definitely adding to my theories about this town."

"There's a town?"

Ford ignored him. "How long were you heading in this direction? Was it immediately after the attack?" He was getting excited, talking too fast. "Tell me about the attack. Was it an animal or human?"

Stan sighed. "You know I'm still not sold on this werewolf mishegas, right?"

"But you  _were_ attacked, right? Two or three months ago?"

Stan sighed again, more dramatically. "I'm getting more coffee, then I'll start from the beginning."

 

Stan didn't want to believe what Ford and McGucket seemed sure of, but he had to admit it did sound like the beginning of one of the movies they'd loved as kids. The animal attack that healed too well ("I just thought it was proof God forgave me for not going to the synagogue since we turned 13 and there stopped being monetary gain in it."), The missing time and clothing ("Not the first time."), even the extra body hair ("That's been happening for a few years now.").

Ford surprised him when he brought out a new book and some fancy art pencils. "Can I see the scar?"

Stan scratched at his shoulder. It had healed fine, no loss of motion, but the scar itself was pretty brutal. "What for?"

"If I can measure the bite radius, it might help in identifying future victims."

That was a pretty good reason. Stan tugged off his shirt, embarrassed by how difficult it was, and sat backwards in his chair. "Don't blame me if it really  _was_ a tiger, and you end up misdiagnosing a bunch of carnies."

He heard someone suck in a breath. Probably McGucket. Ford would have seen it when he was chaining Stan up. The remains of his shirt had covered at least part of it, and he'd been allowed to change in private.

From what he remembered from the rare times he saw it in the mirror, the scar looked sort of like a jagged letter E, with one of those little dashes on the top, like they used in other languages. The tiger (or whatever) had gotten him at angle, ripped open the flesh, and then just left him there to bleed. Not typical predator behavior, but maybe it had gotten scared off by a car. Stan couldn't blame someone for not stopping when a big animal was on the loose.

"That's thick," Ford murmured over the scratching of his pencil. "Did you lose any muscle?"

"I don't think so. The emergency room doctor said I might, but I can still move everything just fine. It doesn't even get stiff when it rains, like my knee."

"You've got a bum knee?" McGucket asked. "At your age?"

"Boxing." Stan almost shrugged, but remembered just in time that he should probably be holding still.

"You say that like it wasn't your fault," Ford chuckled.

"It happened while I was boxing, that makes it a boxing injury."

"Hm." He heard the clatter of pencils and scrape of a chair. "Hold still, I want to measure the distance between the teeth."

"Whatever."

It felt a little weird to have his brother holding a plastic ruler against his skin. Especially when he kept making little thoughtful noises and writing things down.

"Odd."

"What is?"

"The bite shape. Wolves have long snouts, this seems like the creature had... more of a..." Stan turned to see Ford making a chopping gesture. "A flatter face."

"What, closer to a human?"

"In between."

"Isn't that what you expected?"

"No!" Ford pushed his hair back in frustration, making it stick up at crazy angles. Stan realized neither of them had showered today. "All the anecdotes I've collected indicate werewolves are nearly indistinguishable from normal wolves when they transform, aside from their larger size. That's why no one really believes in them, despite their inability to stay hidden."

"Werewolves can't hide?"

"They  _don't_ ," he clarified. "All a transformed werewolf wants to do is hunt and devour. But when they're spotted, or even killed, all anyone sees is an unusually large and vicious wolf."

"Wait." Stan's stomach sank. "I thought werewolves could only be killed by a silver bullet."

"Not exactly. The true danger of werewolves is their healing; they can be killed like anything else, but if they aren't killed instantly they can usually heal from it. The silver bullets negate this." Ford shrugged. "I don't have the equipment to make bullets, so I tried shooting you with a dart full of silver nitrate."

"What."

"It knocked you unconscious, and changed you back to your human shape. Which, uh... is probably for the best." He bit his lip, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "I'd rather not add 'fratricide' to the list of sins I've committed in the name of science."

"You were trying to  _kill_ me?"

"Of course I was!" Ford exclaimed, but he didn't sound convinced. "You were a homicidal monster! You would have tried to kill  _me_ if I hadn't snuck up on you from behind."

"You shot me in the _butt_ with a  _poison dart_ ?"

"Silver nitrate is only poisonous in large doses," Ford corrected.

"How large was the dose?"

"And it wasn't your butt, more like your thigh." Ford frowned. "I think. It was dark. I never got a good look." He looked at Stan, actually seeming concerned. "How is your leg?"

Stan looked down sat his lap. "I can't even tell which one you shot."

"Okay." He moved on, quickly. "After that I, um, chained you to the biggest tree within reach, and..."

"And sat there until I woke up?"

"Pretty much."

There was no reason to doubt the story. Especially since Ford showed every sign of being sorry about some of it.

"What about McGucket here?" Stan twisted in the chair to look at him. "Where were you during all this?"

"Asleep," he admitted. "I told him not to go after whatever was scaring all the animals. I assumed he'd listened. My mistake."

"I radioed him in the morning," Ford explained. "You were still sleeping, I think."

"I was still  _knocked out,_ " Stan corrected. "Because you shot me full of poison."

"Okay," Ford huffed, " _that's_ what you're holding against me?"

"Oh I'm holding a lot of things against you." Stan growled, "A  _lot_ ."

Ford drew himself up and began, "You know-"

"Hey!" McGucket leapt to his feet. "We should go find Stanley's car."

"Yes," Stan agreed. "I need clothes that fit. See if I can get some of my dignity back."

Ford snorted but didn't take the obvious bait. Stan interpreted that as a good sign.

They piled into McGucket's car for the second time that morning, and followed Ford's "triangulation" of where he expected the Stanleymobile to be. In the end, it was actually a lot closer than he expected, much to Stan's relief.

"Looks like everything's okay. Ugh. Except for the raccoon prints."  Their tiny creepy hands had been all over his seats, and stolen all the stale french fries from underneath them (not that he minded that part.)

Things were looking up, until Stan slid behind the wheel and utterly failed to start the engine. Nothing, not even a whine.

He let his head fall onto the steering wheel and took a long slow breath.

"Y'all right there Stanley?"

"I'm good. Just let me die."

McGucket patted his shoulder.  "We can call a tow truck."

"Yep. Yep."  Stan focused on his breathing.  "Tow truck. Sure."  He looked up at McGucket.  "I'm completely broke, in case it wasn't obvious."

"We'll find something for you to do. You're a strapping fella, you can help us carry parts." He glanced back at his, still working, car.  "You can help me carry your brother."

"What?"  Stan sat up and followed McGucket's gaze.  Ford was still sitting in the backseat, head slumped forward and arms crossed. "Is he asleep?"

"He  _was_ up all night with you."

"Holding a gun on me."

"Well, yes."

Stan grabbed the cleanest of his clothes and his long-expired New Jersey driver's license (explaining the others was a hassle he didn't want to deal with quite yet), as well as the more incriminating stuff he'd need to dispose of. McGucket didn't ask any questions and Stan didn't offer any answers.

Putting Ford to bed was easy enough. He didn't stir, except once when he muttered "thanks," but it sounded like sleep-talk. After that they called a tow truck, and by noon Stan was waiting for the mechanic, as presentable as he was likely to get.

"Thanks for all this," Stan told McGucket.

"Don't thank me, I'm billing your brother for today."

"Billing?" Stan's eyes widened. "Is Stanford your boss?"

McGucket chuckled. "Sorta? I'm paid by the grant board, but uh, Ford could fire me if he wanted."

"Whoa."

"How much do you know about research grants?"

"Uh, approximately  jack."

"Well, your brother can't just go buyin' whatever he wants, willy-nilly. He's gotta itemize and justify everything to the board."

"Huh." Stan scratched his head. Explained the cheap shampoo. "So how does that work with him going out hunting werewolves?"

"Beats the heck outta me." McGucket shrugged. "I think up until recently he was down on paper as studying the local ecology."

"What happened recently?"

McGucket frowned, and looked like he was trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to s ay , when the mechanic finally emerged.

"So the good news is, I'm not going to have to order any parts."

"Great!"

"Bad news is, your engine is full of baby raccoons."

Stan buried his face in his hands. "How long till they can be moved?"

"That's really up to the mama raccoon."

"Great."

***

Ford woke up in time to make dinner (sandwiches) and put a pillow on the couch for Stan, then retreated to the basement to do god-knows-what. Stan was left alone with his thoughts, and a bunch of battered books on the occult, medical anomalies, and Native American folktales.

"Haven't changed much, have ya bro?" Stan said to the empty room.

He settled in with the folktale book until he fell asleep, and dreamed of hunting.

***

For the next few days, things existed in almost a cold war state. Stan and Ford ate most meals together, but rarely spoke outside of Ford's periodic barrage of questions ("What do you remember about the attack? Is that all? Are you sure?"). Ford shut himself up in the basement, sometimes with McGucket, sometimes alone, and Stan spent his days wandering the tiny town he'd found himself in.

It wasn't bad, he had to admit. A little weird, with its own traditions and quirks in the way of small towns everywhere. But not bad. The people were friendly, there were enough modern conveniences that it didn't feel like a backwater, and he even found a halfway decent Mexican restaurant.

But that raised another problem; funds. And Stan's lack of them.

He accompanied McGucket to a bar about a week after he'd arrived, ordering an ice water at first and one of those peach sodas when McGucket offered to pay.

"You don't drink?"

"I quit."

McGucket immediately looked guilt-stricken. "Should we go somewhere else? It's okay, I didn't mean to-"

"No, no, not like that." Stan laughed. "You sort of lose the taste for it when you spend half a day being quietly judged by Mormons. Who've seen you naked."

McGucket made a face. "Do I want to know the rest of that story?"

"It's not as funny if you do." He left out the part about throwing up blood. Partly because he didn't want pity, and partly because he didn't want to admit it was probably because he was a werewolf and had been eating something bloody.

"So listen," he changed the subject before McGucket decided he wanted to know anyway. "I need a job."

"Have you been looking?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"I haven't been here much longer than you, you know."

"You haven't?"

"Only a couple months." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I might know of something though. My girlfriend works at the power plant. They're  _always_ hiring."

"You've only been here two months and you have a local girlfriend?"

McGucket just grinned. He wasn't much to look at, unless you really liked the dweeb type, but Stan had to admit, he was a nice guy. And now that he was in the second half of his twenties, that seemed to be what women were looking for.

"I, uh, I never technically finished high school."

McGucket shrugged. "Can't hurt to try."

 

So that was how, two weeks after aimlessly ending up in Gravity Falls, Stan started work at the Northwest Power Plant. He'd been hired for pure manual labor, and had at least four years on everyone else in his department. Still, a paycheck was a paycheck, and he'd never had one so steady.

"What did you do before this?" McGucket asked one evening. He'd joined Stan and Ford for dinner, as he often did when he was working for the day.

There was a long pause after the question. Stan was trying to figure out how to say "fraud, mostly" in a way that wasn't that. And Ford... Theoretically Ford shouldn't know any more than McGucket, but Stan suspected their mother had filled him in with what she knew (which was more than Stan had told her, since she was, after all, in the same business).

"Sorry," McGucket said quietly. "None of my business."

"No, it's okay," Stan said. "I was a... salesman. Door to door. Some tv. I actually created a lot of the products I sold, you know!"

"Did you?" McGucket seemed interested, or at least faked it convincingly. "I guess inventing runs in the family."

Stan and Ford looked at each other, and Stan was sure his face mirrored the look of shock on his brother's.

  
"I wouldn't call it inventing," Stan said, ignoring Ford's muttered agreement. "I just..." He tried to think of a nice way to say the next bit, and settled on the truth. "I made the products as cheaply as possible, while keeping them  _looking_ decent enough to sell for full price. "

McGucket burst out laughing, and even Ford smiled. "That's just capitalism," he said.

"Yeah... well..." Stan tried to smile too, but it felt crooked. "I wasn't very good at it. Finding the balance that didn't get me run out of town."

Despite the conversation, Stan stifled a yawn. His job was steady, and paid... well, it paid, that was the important part. But eight hours of physical labor every day left him exhausted and drained. It wasn't that he wasn't in shape; okay that shape was a potato sack, but he could lift boxes with the best of them.

The worst part was, as soon as he got done he didn't feel like doing anything. He found an old tv Ford didn't use (he said he only owned it to study the effect of spirits on the static), and plugged it in in the room that had been designated his, and sat in front of it until he fell asleep. He didn't have the energy for anything else.

In a town as full of rubes as this, he could have thought of all kinds of low-level scams to keep busy. Little things, entertainment that didn't cost him anything, but cost the viewer out the nose. Or cheap crappy souvenirs for folks on vacation taking the scenic route. Hell, he could have borrowed Ford's camera and charged for pictures in front of one of the larger trees.

What had he done with his free time when he was younger? Read comics, worked on the boat... He'd been into taxidermy for a while, before he discovered how expensive doing it right was. Mom had not appreciated him bringing home dead things, even when he explained he just wanted to display the bones.

Stan was a little curious whether Ford would indulge him. He had a few preserved animals in his collection of oddities, maybe it would actually be helpful. Of course, it was all moot if he couldn't even work up the strength to get off the couch.

He had to keep working. The full moon was a week away, and his car was still in the shop. The raccoons were gone but they'd chewed through things it didn't seem possible to chew through. You could walk to everything important in town, and even the unimportant things if you had enough time and the weather was nice. But Stan was tired of relying on McGucket when they needed more than a handful of groceries.

After the full moon, when Ford had gotten his data... Maybe Stan wasn't a werewolf after all. Maybe he'd be thrown back on the street where he belonged. Or maybe he was, and he'd get a couple more months, until Ford cured him. The eventual outcome was the same.

On his days off, Stan was determined to leave the house. Even if he had nowhere to go, it was better than being underfoot. Well, overhead, technically, since most of the work went on in the basement. A couple times McGucket had asked him to help carry inside some huge metal contraption tied to the roof of his car, but Ford never let him past the elevator.

 

The worst part had happened the night before. He got home (if you could call a couch "home") and found Ford doing something with a burner and metal pellets. A small set of scales were next to him on the table.

Stan's stomach sank as he recognized them.

"Stanley."

"Heyyyyy, Sixer."

"I was looking for some equipment I left in the study, and I found this. Do you want to explain to me why you'd need something like this?"

"Not particularly," Stan said honestly.

Ford leaned back and sighed. He was wearing safety goggles over his glasses, while something molten bubbled in a tiny pot. "Just tell me you didn't bring anything  _else_ into my house."

"No! No. Look, I'm not involved with that any more. I- I needed startup money, I wasn't..." Stan was too tired to justify himself. "The money was too good. I was stupid."

"I believe you." Ford was practically growling. Stan couldn't think of anything to say, so he retreated to the study.

 

They hadn't spoken since. When Stan got up, Ford was already locked away with McGucket downstairs. There wasn't any breakfast waiting, but Ford had left the sugar out for his coffee. It was something.

Stan went out, just to get out. He had a solitary breakfast at the weird log-shaped diner, then walked until his feet were sore (which wasn't far, he'd woken up with them still aching).

Somehow he ended up at the used car lot. He'd walked by it several times by now, and every time he was struck by how sad it was. The cars were so dented they looked wrinkled, the signs and banners were sun-bleached to a uniform yellow, and he was pretty sure the For Sale sign in the office window referred to the business rather than the vehicles.

But Ford needed a car, and Stan was just sad and desperate enough to look around. He was confident he could out-maneuver whatever the salesmen could throw at him.

Only one jogged out to meet him, wiping his mouth with a napkin and stuffing it in his pocket. Stan wasn't squeamish, but he declined a handshake out of principle.

"I'm just looking."

"Oh! Right." The man didn't seem to know what to say. He stood back with his hands clasped in front of him, trying to pretend he wasn't watching Stan.

This place was even sadder from the inside, if such a thing was possible. Stan browsed the beat-up cars, unable to resist needling the poor salesman a little by pretending to be interested in one here and there. He did eventually home in on the least-worst car on the lot; a pea green station wagon older than he was. Or at least with a lot more miles.

Ignoring the sticker on the windshield, Stan asked, "How much?"

"Oh, uh," the salesman checked the sticker, "that one's 3,000."

Stan opened his wallet and flipped through his cash. "I'll give you twenty bucks."

"Uh, I'm sure we can come up with a price point that's right for you."

"Yes, and it's twenty bucks."

"Th- this model is- is in very good, shape, and, uh, lots of trunk space." He patted it, and the rear bumper fell off, trailing rust flakes. "Oh, oh no..."

"Twenty bucks."

The salesman, who already looked like a wet noodle, slumped even more. "I'll go get the paperwork started."

"No, you'll go get the keys. Then, I will give you this twenty, and drive away. That's my offer. Take it or leave it."

The salesman drooped so low he looked like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. He nodded sadly and started to turn toward the office.

"Oh my god, no." Stan held up his hands. "Stop. You- Do you know what you've accomplished here today? I feel too sorry for you to rip you off. That's never happened to me before. I'm not sure if I should feel emasculated or not."

"I- I'm sorry?"

"You should be." Stan picked up the bumper and balanced it back in place. "Okay first of all, you call this an easy-detachable bumper and it's free for today only."

"Uh..."

"Second, paint over this rust! Are you kidding me with this? It doesn't have to be car paint, it just has to match." Stan glanced at him. "You should be writing this down."

"Oh!" He started scrabbling in his pockets for a pen and paper. Stan chose not to point out the one in his shirt.

"Third, don't stand with your hands clasped in front like that. Makes you look submissive. Which can be a tool, but it's not one you use to sell cars."

 

Stan got home a few hours later, carrying a shoebox full of paper and keys. Ford and McGucket were sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over blueprints.

"Where were you?" McGucket greeted him, cheerfully. Apparently Ford hadn't told him about what he'd found.

"Uh..." Stan considered how things had gone. "Job interview."

"What? Did something happen at the plant?"

"Nah," Stan shrugged. "Thanks for the tip on that and all, but I found something that suits me better. Oh, crap, I have to get a suit."

"Don't you have one?" Ford asked, not looking up from his work. "You did in your commercials."

So he'd seen some of those. Well that was a new level of humiliation that Stan would have to sort through later.

"Doesn't fit," Stan said. "Or, got tar and feathers on it. Or coffee. Or one time, honey. I've been through a lot of suits."

"Well hopefully this new job doesn't mind you taking a couple days off this week." Ford pulled out a pocket calendar he'd drawn symbols all over. "The full moon is coming up."

Stan laughed, but even he could hear how insincere it was. "They love me over there. It's fine."

That part was true. The salesman, who had turned out to be the owner, had looked like he wanted to kiss Stan by the time he was done. He couldn't pay very much, not even as much as he was making at the plant, but it was worth it for a job where Stan didn't feel stifled.

Besides, he'd be making commission on top of a base salary. He'd be fine.

***

"I want you guys to know," Stan said, "from the bottom of my heart; I hate you and this sucks."

"Fair enough." McGucket tightened the chains until Stan couldn't even slouch.

"Noted," Ford said, and wrote it down.

The collar was back, as was the gun, which Stan had been very vocal about. It was slightly less demeaning to be chained up in a room specifically designed for chaining him up, than to a tree, but he was still against it.

"Can't you just drug me like last time?"

"That's plan beta," Ford assured him.

"What's plan alpha?"

"The chains." McGucket checked the lock on the collar one last time.

"I don't like any of these plans. What's Greek for C?"

"Nothing. After beta comes gamma."

"Is plan gamma the actual gun?"

The silence was enough answer.

"I hate you. And this sucks."

Ford had set up a video camera on a tripod, and was recording some kind of introduction. Stan took offense to being labeled "subject blah-blah-blah," but he was glad he wasn't going to have to rely on  _them_ for what happened next.

If the last two times were indication, he wouldn't have any memory of it the next morning. So now here he was, chained to a wall in clothes he didn't mind losing, in a room underground with a shuttered window specifically prepared to let the moonlight in.

"Is it time?" Ford asked. He still looked far too eager.

"Looks like."  McGucket went to pull the cord for the shutters, and Stan stopped him.

"Wait, McGucket."

"What?"

"If you have to shoot me."  He paused, trying to think of something suitably cool to say. "Just, make up something awesome. Like I died saving orphans from a fire. But not that, that's too obviously fake. Something _like_ that."

"I promise," McGucket smiled. It was clearly forced, but reassuring anyway.

Stan couldn't bring himself to look at Ford. He focused his eyes on the window, as McGucket pulled it open.

The moon rose full over the trees...

***

"This is Stanford Pines, July 27, 1980. 9:28 pm. With subject 327."

Ford took a breath. It wasn't the first time he'd made a video like this, but it wasn't his favorite way to record observations. Too formal, too dull. Especially when it came to the supernatural, it was best to record feelings and impressions as well as facts.

Still, the real purpose of this video was to convince Stanley that Ford and Fiddleford were right about him. Not to rub it in his face, of course. Just get him to agree to more testing.

"Is it time?" Ford asked, mostly to get it on tape.  He knew it was. Moonrise was an hour ago, he'd charted the course before they even set up this room, and it was a clear night. As soon as they opened the shutters, Stanley should be affected.

Should.  There were always 'should's in science, but this one nagged at him. He'd been wrong about the silver nitrate, he'd been wrong about the bite radius on the scars. He'd even, though he didn't tell Fiddleford that, been wrong about whether the moonrise would affect Stanley or whether he'd have to see it personally.

When Stan said his jokey little speech about last requests, Ford was tempted to remind him he was on tape. But he knew his brother, and he knew he was acting glib because he was scared. It would be... cruel, to interfere with his coping mechanism.

Stan's eyes were on the window, so he didn't see Ford pick up the dart gun. "Do it," he said. Fiddleford did.

For half a second nothing happened, except for the sudden onslaught of nervous tension in Ford's stomach. Then, Stanley screamed.

Ford forced himself to keep his eyes open. Video aside, there was nothing like first-hand data.

As the scream turned into an animalistic roar, golden fur began growing from every visible area of his skin. His hair lightened, and flattened, and his face began to stretch and contort. His teeth stretched into fangs. His ears traveled up the side of his skull. And he grew. And grew. And grew.

And, slowly, he began to look like a very recognizable animal.

"Ford..." Fiddleford started backing up as Stan kept growing.

"I know."

"Stanley's not a werewolf, Ford."

"I'm seeing that, yes!" Ford set down the dart gun so he could zoom out the camera. The huge golden cat that had been his brother two minutes ago (two minutes? That was what the timestamp said, but surely it had taken longer than that. Stan's scream alone had seemed to go on for ten minutes or more) was far larger than Ford's predictions for Stan's wolf form.

It was some kind of cougar, or at least that was what it looked closest to. The front limbs were longer than the back, and the paws too long, almost hand-like. And huge, much bigger than an ordinary cougar. Bigger than a tiger, Ford thought, though he hated to admit he couldn't remember off the top of his head how big they were on average.

"He thought it was a tiger that attacked him," Ford groaned. "Of course."

"Ford, he's a lot bigger than we thought."

"I know, it's unexpected, but okay. The silver collar-"

The silver collar snapped. The chains held for a second longer, but the cat-that-was-Stan ripped them free from the wall in a shower of brick chips and dust. He roared, hunched forward on his limbs, and pounced across most of the room.

The impact knocked not only both men off their feet, but the camera as well, and several pieces of equipment off the table. Ford lunged for the dart gun, curling his fingers around it and bracing himself against the ground to take aim.

The cougar was focused on Fiddleford, who was scrambling, crablike, backward until he bumped into the wall. A huge clawed paw raised into the air over Fiddleford's gut. "Ford!" he shouted.

"Over here!" Ford's hands were shaking, but he aimed as best he could. "Hey! You big, fat asshole!"

The cat-that-was-Stan turned toward him, Fiddleford temporarily forgotten, and a low growl that went straight to the primal lizard part of Ford's brain rumbled across the room.

In a split second, Ford noticed two things.  One; the gun he was holding was a pistol, the one he'd finally made silver bullets for.  And two; the cougar still had Stan's eyes.

His hands shook. He could see the end of the gun wobbling wildly, making squiggly figure-8s over Stan's face. Ford bit his lip, tightened his grip, swallowed the stomach acid rising in his throat.

He heard, rather than felt, the gun drop to the floor.

And as the cat-that-was-his-brother began to crouch for another pounce, this one which would surely land him right on top of Ford, in prime neck-ripping position, Ford heard a quiet _"pufft_."

The cougar froze. Straightened up. Swayed. And then it was down, shrinking, shedding fur that disappeared before it hit the floor, until it revealed the unconscious form of Stanley Pines. With a dart in his shoulder.

"Oh god." Ford pressed a hand to his mouth as a hysterical giggle escaped his throat. "Oh god, Fiddleford."

"Present." Fiddleford slumped down on the floor next to him. He held up the dart gun, dangling from one finger. "So, plan delta sure was a thing."

"I'm sorry." Ford could hear himself starting to hyperventilate. "I couldn't do it, I'm sorry, I couldn't shoot him."

"Hey, hey." Fiddleford put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "That's a  _good_ thing, you doofus."

"I'm sorry," he said again. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, despite his best efforts to stop them. "I couldn't..."

"I swear, I'm not upset. I wouldn't be offended if you chose him over me."

"You'd be dead!" Ford exclaimed, not joking at all, but trying to sound like it. Fiddleford laughed, but Ford was sure he wasn't amused.

"I'm not. No one's dead, and no one's hurt. And we learned a lot, right?"

"Right, right." Ford rubbed away the traitorous tears. "A- a werecougar... thing. I have to admit, I did not predict that."

"He thought he was attacked by a tiger, right? And said the park rangers thought there was a cougar attack in Utah?"

"Right. Ugh." Ford rubbed his forehead. "I was so stuck on 'werewolf,' I... This explains why my triangulation of his car was off too. Cougars are slower than wolves."

"So what do we know about werecougars? Silver affects them, but not the same way as werewolves."

"They still transform at the full moon. They show no signs of their curse outside of that."

"We know what we know about werewolves because of folklore. Cougars are common all over both American continents, there must be stories about this."

"Right. Let's, uh... let's check on Stanley, then get to work." Ford took a still-shaky breath and started to stand, when he noticed the camera. "Oh, no, I hope the footage isn't damaged."

Even if it was, he didn't think he could forget a single moment of what had happened tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
> 
> (I totally foreshadowed this but I don't blame anyone for not noticing. I mean, I did tag werewolves and put "wolf" in the title. I'm not sorry though.)


End file.
